Rationality
by arianna99
Summary: Sam considers how they got where they are and what it means when Dean calls him Sammy. Dean, apparently, is not considering. That, at least. Wincest, rating is no joke I can't believe I wrote this...


I am going to the special hell. I know I am.

**Title: **Rationalization  
**Rating: **NC-17, for swearing and sex  
**Disclaimer: **Not mine in any way, shape or form  
**Fandom, Pairing: **Supernatural, Wincest

**Notes/Warnings: **Graphic. Title sucks because it's way to late to come up with a good title. Sorry.

**Summary: **Sam considers being called 'Sammy' and pop psychology. Dean, apparently, is considering the weird way Sam looks at him sometimes.

There's a reason Sam's never quite been able to cure Dean of calling him 'Sammy'. Mostly, it's that he likes Dean calling him Sammy.

Partially, though, it's because Sam has a completely overdeveloped conscience. He would feel hypocritical if he made Dean stop calling him Sammy because whenever things get rough, there's a Dean voice in Sam's head, sounding like Sam's big brother at his most absolutely hard-ass, when he goes completely into offense and starts saying things like, "So, you just gonna give up now, Sammy, is that it, huh?"

Sam can't even imagine Dean not calling him Sammy. And Sam can imagine a hell of a lot of things most people couldn't. Not to brag or anything, but Sam's pretty freaking smart, and he's seen a lot of things. His brain's all flexible and shit. And he's always been good at picturing things.

Case in point, when he was all of fifteen, he could picture Dean jerking off and gritting out "Sammy," in the lowest voice in his range in high definition and surround sound, even though he'd been pretty much convinced the chances of that ever happening were basically zero.

It's possible this is one reason he likes hearing Dean call him Sammy.

The horndog reason. Sam categorizes his reasoning carefully, because, at least in this case, it's hard to know how much of it is rational. Or if any of it at all is rational. Anyway, that's the horndog reason that he likes it when Dean calls him Sammy.

There's also the habit reason; that Dean's been calling him that all his life, and that one's closely connected to the psych 101 reason; that they have next to no physical reminders of their childhood, so a verbal one's the closest thing for both of them, one little thing that reminds them of the few happy times they had as kids.

Then there's what Sam calls the emotional bullcrap reason, because he's pretty sure that's what Dean would call it. That's the reason that pretty much consists of the warm feeling Sam gets inside when Dean calls him Sammy. It's been twenty-three years of needing Dean, of wanting Dean, of being Dean's little brother, wingman, partner and a thousand other things, and when Dean says Sammy, it feels like all of that is being answered with twenty-three years of Dean taking care of Sam, making sure he's okay, being Sam's big brother, mother, protector, partner and probably so many things Sam doesn't know. It's like all of that's being answered with twenty-three years of Dean needing Sam right back.

Freud would have a fucking field day with their family.

It's possible Sam is reading too much into this.

It's just that his chest does funny things when Dean calls him Sammy. Obviously, this either means that Sam is going to have one of the earliest heart attacks in recorded history, or that there's something there to read into.

Winchesters have never been good with unsolved cases.

-

Winchesters aren't very good storytellers, either. The men, that is, Sam can make no assumptions about the women. Mostly they have the strong and silent thing going for them. Tall and mysterious, too. Not so much dark, but hey, two out of three.

Anyway. Obviously, Sam's not been thinking about this logically.

It started when he was about fifteen. That was when Dean had his smoking phase that devolved into an oral fixation phase. That was when Sam had the incest freak-out, which means he's pretty much over it by now.

…and that sounds six kinds of wrong. Thing is, Sam's Research Boy. He looked it all up, in textbooks from the psych section of public libraries, hiding in the darkest corner he could find, hunched over computers in internet cafés, hoping no one looked over his shoulder.

Apparently, urges like that aren't uncommon among siblings, especially siblings that grow up in close quarters. Psychologically, Sam can totally rationalize it.

Of course, he was fifteen at the time, and his dick and rationality weren't really on the same page. Still aren't, come to think of it, but it was worse then.

It calmed him down to know that, though. Three years, it calmed him down, every time he and Dean stared into each other's eyes just a bit too long, every time his thoughts strayed to Dean when he was jerking off in the shower, every time money was so tight they had to share a bed and he woke up hard and wanting nothing more than to roll over and kiss Dean. He just thought, _this is natural. It will go away_.

Apparently, he was wrong. But, see, by the time he noticed that it wasn't just a teenage thing, he was so used to it, it didn't really surprise him.

Not that he didn't love Jess. Not that he doesn't still love her, in a way. But there's Jess, and there's Dean. Jess was a period in his life, Dean _is _his life. Not to be excessively cheesy or anything.

The point is, it's all hopelessly fucked up.

-

Well.

Sort of.

It is fucked up.

Also, it's fucking.

As in, literally.

Sam's not sure how it happened, but somewhere in between the tenth time Dean's played that one Blue Oyster Cult track this week and the last beer Dean drank tonight, something must have happened, because they're up against a motel wall making out like they physically need to be kissing.

Actually, it's more like Dean is up against the motel wall, because at first it was him giving Sam one of those long looks with the half-smile that Dean thinks is mysterious, but to Sam, it really isn't because he can read Dean like an open book. It was one of those looks that said, _I know something. _

"What is it?" Sam asked, and Dean sort of almost didn't answer, except that he meant something by it, and Sam never let anything lie, so he asked again, and again, and again, until Dean was a bit angry and a lot frustrated, rubbing at the back of his neck and expressing five million different things with his eyes.

"I don't know, man," he said. "You been looking at me funny, y'know?"

Sam wanted to say no. Only he didn't really.

Anyway, it's not like Dean doesn't know him better than anyone else, ever. It's not like Dean hasn't guessed himself.

"This is so fucked up," Dean said, which is kind of why Sam was thinking about that, and then they were kissing, and then Sam slammed Dean up against the wall, and that's where they are now.

Sam would love to be able to say this is what's running through his head at this precise moment, because being aware of how they got there and why exactly it's fifteen shades of _wrong _would make him a better person, but mostly, what's running through Sam's head is a fog of _yes, more, Dean, God, Deandeandeandean._

Dean's not much better, head tilted back as Sam nibbles on his neck, practically mounting Sam.

Sam's not going to be held responsible for the noise he makes when Dean's dick brushes up against his own, or for the way he picks Dean up (not _really, _he later insists, he sort of dragged Dean, but Dean won't let him forget it, because apparently, it's totally Rhett Butler, and Dean only shuts up about _that _when Sam points out that makes Dean Scarlett) and throws him down on the motel bed.

The springs creak ominously, and the polyester-something blend feels scratchy underneath them, but Dean's not complaining, and Sam's too busy pulling off all their clothes to care.

Sam's been thinking about this for eight years. It's not his fault he's a little impatient.

There's a moment where Dean kind of freaks out, flips them over and just stares down at Sam for a moment, but then his thighs tense where he's straddling Sam, their dicks rub together again, and Dean's kissing Sam while his amulet brushes against Sam's chest.

It turns out Dean really likes having his nipples pulled, which is how Sam gets Dean flipped over again, because Dean is easily distracted sometimes.

Or maybe, possibly, Dean just likes being underneath Sam, because his eyes are wide and his pupils blown and he's arching up and begging.

"Can I fuck you?" Sam asks, almost reverently, and Dean whimpers and says, "Jesus, Sam, anything you want," and his eyes say, _anything, ever, please, everything so long as you stay with me._

Lube's in the duffel, and Sam has to get up to reach grab it. He hesitates over the condom and in the end, decides to let it be. He wants to mark Dean in a primal, barbarian way.

Dad made damn sure they always used condoms when he gave them the sex talk. Back in the day.

Thinking about Dad during sex is wrong. Sam knows that. But hell, he's fucking his brother, some lines are just gonna end up getting crossed.

Dad would've killed them for this.

Sam wonders if that's what held Dean back all this time, because Dean was always stuck in the middle, unable to pick whether he owed Dad more allegiance than he loved Sam or whether he loved Sam more than he wanted Dad to say _I'm proud of you, son_.

It's moot point now, anyway. Dean's spread out on the motel bed, shaking with want, and Sam's got two fingers up his ass, and it doesn't matter what Dad would say, doesn't matter why Dean is doing this, just matters that he is, that Sam's finally where he dreamed about being for so long.

Dean moans like a freaking whore when Sam enters him. It's gotta hurt, but he clutches at Sam, pulls him closer, pulls him _in _until they're so close Sam wants to scream, or possibly cry.

"Sam," Dean says, and his voice is like Sam imagined it would be, low and rough and used, "come on. Please."

Dean's a tough guy, but there's a reason Sam's better at hustling. Dean folds in on himself like a house of cards on a windy day when you apply pressure on just the right spot. When Dean had gotten so desperate he'd told Sam he didn't want him to die hunting the goddamn yellow-eyed motherfucker, Sam freely admits he'd been just a bit turned on by the way Dean dropped every inch of machismo as soon as he got scared he'd lose Sam. There's something addictive about that kind of power.

Sam likes being on top. He likes controlling. He fucking loves this, right here, him in Dean, fucking and taking and making Dean cry out and clench around him.

"Harder," Dean grits out, and it's anyone's guess as to whether he thinks this is going to be a one-time thing (though Sam knows it's not) and he wants to feel it for as long as possible or whether he's trying to punish himself for what happened to Dad, but Sam's not a fucking therapist, he's dealing with the absolute undeniable want between the two of them right now, not Dean's boatload of issues.

Dean's heel is digging into Sam's back, and it fucking hurts, but then, Sam's no stranger to pain. These days, he has a sort of Stockholm syndrome thing going on with pain. When Dean's nails dig into his shoulders, he knows he's not going to last, and he tries to grab for Dean's dick, but Dean says, "no, just you, Sam," and Sam's last remaining brain cells fry at just how unbelievably hot that is.

He just goes for it, hears the headboard slamming into the wall and ignores it. "Come on," he says, "Dean, come for me, c'mon, know you want it, baby…" he trails off in a gasp as Dean clenches around him.

"Sam," Dean moans, then, "Sammy," and he comes all over both of them.

"Sammy" is what tips Sam over the edge into the most amazing orgasm he's had recently.

It's later, when they're lying half on top of each other in the tiny motel bed, sweat cooling on their bodies, with Sam considering the whole Sammy thing, when Dean says it again, and something blossoms in Sam's chest, and Sam just decides that, yeah, okay, it just is what it is.

"Yeah?" he says to Dean.

"Are we…?"

"I don't know," Sam says honestly. "What do you think?"

Dean sits up, pushes himself back until he's leaning against the headboard (and, dude, there's bits or wallpaper that got chipped when the headboard slammed into the wall). "We're so going to hell."

"No news there," Sam says.

"Well, it's…I dunno, Sammy, I really fucking don't know. Look, if you wanna go now, I'd totally get it-"

"Fuck off," Sam says lazily. "I'm the one who fucked you through the mattress. Either you're gonna deal or you're gonna be totally emo about it. Whatever floats your boat, man."

"Bitch."

"Jerk."

Sam falls asleep with his head against Dean's chest.


End file.
